


War and Remembrance

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Multi-Age, Other - Freeform, Plot - Good pacing, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 17,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annûn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."</p><p>Stories are arranged more or less chronologically. Titles serve as chapter headings. Authors' names are included in their chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shelob's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

This poem is set into an image: please click on the link.

 

[Shelob's Lament](http://mywebpages.comcast.net/gryphonsmith/fileg/Shelob%27s-lament.jpg)

\--Shunt

 

 

*******

 

If you have comments, you can leave them in [ fileg's forum](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confID=6&Forumid=207)  



	2. To Sing of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

  
Don’t sing to me of war or warriors. I have lived war. I have tasted its blood - and it has tasted mine. I remember well the sharpness of the blade that slices you apart, the salt-sharp smell of blood that drowns you and the bitter fire that destroys all who fight.  
I saw my father killed – and two-thirds of our people massacred. I saw them cut down, dying without a hope, without a point. Their death changed nothing, saved no-one – bought no more than a temporary and false peace. After we buried our dead I led what was left of our people back to a home still threatened by shadow, back to a life spent fighting an encroaching darkness that we could not defeat.

At Dagorlad I saw the deaths of thousands – saw, felt, heard, lived them. I saw Elves and Men torn apart, heard the screams of horses as they were impaled on sharp-tipped spears, felt the sundering of countless Elves from this world and saw the tears of Men left bereft. I fought too – stabbed and cut and wiped flesh from my sword, slipped and fell on blood-soaked grass and staggered to my feet, bent bow until my fingers bled, threw myself into that maelstrom of fear and pain… and killed those that took the other side. Flames consumed me and I hungered for their lives as though their deaths would restore those I had lost.

When darkness fell on us outside the Black Gate, with my father and all our champions dead, I tried to rally what was left of Mirkwood’s proud army. In the madness of the hour I did not fear death but only loss. With brave words of honour and pride did I call them to me then I led them forward, led them to death and pain and horror. They followed me and I gave them only a handful of fine words – and a grievous end. It was a pitifully small army that gathered around me in the coldest hour of dawn. Endlessly did I look for the comrades that had followed my father’s flag from Mirkwood - but they did not come. Silently did I call their names – but they did not come. I am still stained by their blood.

When they said the war was over I took what remained of Mirkwood and led them home and, though we rode through bright day, darkness accompanied us and lapped around us. The very trees of Mirkwood reproached us. _Where are the rest?_ the trees asked – and _There are no rest,_ we replied. We rode through a forest of mourning to a people that already wept for husbands, sons, lovers or brothers who had gone beyond these shores. We brought with us only sorrow and tales of bravery that would keep no-one warm.

_That_ was the glorious war of the Last Alliance. I will sing no songs of battle, raise no warriors, honour no flags of war. I have lived war.

Avon

**********************************

Author’s Note:  
The story is, of course, being told by Thranduil.

My discussion can be found at [Avon’s Stories](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=6&forumId=229)

I've done some research online and in UT but I'm pretty much out of my depth in the period I chose to write in so I hope I'll be forgiven any canon crunches. (Point them out though by all means.)

I’d like to acknowledge the inspiration and facts I found in Ellen Brundige’s excellent article - [ Legolas of Mirkwood - Prince Among Equals](http://www.station187.com/istad/tolkien/legolas.html)


	3. Flickers in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

I try to close my eyes, but I cannot. Sleep did not come to me this night, of all nights, when I would have willingly surrendered myself to the relief that comes through dreams... Dreams do not bring me comfort; but, tonight, I would have traded any dream, be it dark or foul, if only I could escape the glimmer of those stars! I can see them all above, clusters of bright, glittering stars; and, with my finger I can trace their outlines, seeing their shapes as they form in my mind, trying to remember what I used to know, when the world was kinder and simpler. I see them, glinting from their skyward dwellings, calling to me, speaking to me... do I dare listen? I fear I will not wish to hear what they have to say; not tonight.

I see them, although the night is black and threatens to choke me: Obrothmabar first, as it swings in the sky-waves until it reaches the  
shores of Dol Amroth; and the Swan, too, keeping the Eagle company as sentinels of the air and sea. Menelvagor is there, the Swordsman of the sky, with its shining belt of jewels; and the Archer... the Archer, too, is there. Does he know I also have a bow? Does he know... does he know I killed a man today?

I shudder in shame. How could I? And yet, I had known for a long time  
that this day would come. I had known it, and I had accepted the demands of my duty, not even stopping for once to think of what it would imply. But, this is my duty; I hope that the Valar, and the Stars, and Men will be able to forgive me, if only because I do it to defend that which I love. I never thought that love demanded such a great price.

It matters not, in the end. Whether I do it for duty's sake, or for love's sake, as I have told my mind all this day, it matters not. There is one man who will not return home, because of me. He was surely somebody's friend, and somebody's son. What will his mother think of it, when she hears? And his father? Will his people honor him? He died defending them, just as I try to defend Gondor. He seemed quite young, only a year or two older than I. I wonder whether he had a lass waiting for him... I wonder whether he had a brother...

As I continue my perusal of the heavens, I feel as one who stands upon judgement. I see the prow of Earendil's ship as it traverses the night sky, but its dazzling light brings me no joy. I see the stars, and I wish I could close my eyes and get rid of them! Their reflection haunts me so! But, I cannot; for, even when I shut my lids tight, I still see a pair of searing hazel-colored flickers...

***  
\--Starlight  



	4. Flame of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

_Somewhere between Rivendell and Amon Hen._

\----

Every night, as the fire burns low and those around him begin to fall asleep, he draws his sword and cleans it. A rag, to polish the written blade – to wipe off the dust of travel and the blood of slain foes. Then he runs a whetstone along the edges, sharpening, refining, keeping Andúril as keen and as deadly as the day it was first forged.

Peering along the blade in the firelight, the engraved words seem to move, telling the tale of the sword and its bearers. Telling a tale of war, and of death. He does not allow himself to reflect on the lives this weapon has taken – Man, and Orc and Warg. In his hands, in this incarnation, the sword has barely tasted a drop of blood. But he knows how it was wielded in the hands of his forefather; how the blade shone with flame on the slopes of Orodruin before it was snapped like tinder. And he knows that it can shine again, and will shine again.

He tucks the whetstone away and takes up the rag once more, to smooth the slivers of metal away. Andúril is a precious thing, a priceless thing, but it is also a tool. In his grasp it will deal out death and pain and suffering. For war is coming, and this thing of beauty will become the tool of destruction.

Sliding the blade back into its scabbard, he winds his belt around it and lies down, the sword by his side. War is coming, and in this weapon lies the hope of a nation, and yet also the destruction of hope for so many. He prays it will be over swiftly.

***  
\--Eledhwen

 


	5. Keeper of a Warrior's Soul/The Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pair of triolets, writen for Grulf and

Keeper of a Warrior's Soul

***

The Warrior Speaks

O keeper of a warrior's soul;  
My wife, my love - live in my heart.  
I feel your touch and I am whole  
O keeper of a warrior's soul.  
Thru griefs to come let this console:  
Tho' this life ends, we ne'er shall part.  
O keeper of a warrior's soul;  
My wife, my love - live in my heart.

 

***

The Vigil

She stands before the door and waits.  
Her arms now are empty, her eyes filled with tears.  
Her heart cries out against the fates.  
She stands before the door and waits.  
Persuaded the hordes of the Dark One who hates  
Ere this day is o'er will fulfill all her fears,  
She stands before the door and waits.  
Her arms now are empty, her eyes filled with tears.

*******

Author's notes: This is a pair of triolets, writen for Gárulf and  
for his wife, my OC Edrys.

Dedicated to all the warrior souls who serve, and to those who wait  
for their return.

~Nessime

Please feel free to join my discussion [here](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=2&forumId=189)


	6. White Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

Summary: Eomer at Theodred's Grave.

*****

You rode away in dawn's first light, at the head of your men as always, singing. You sang on as you rode past, though you knew that you may not return. May not? No you knew that you would not. We had spoken of such the night before, in the stables where we both had gone to seek comfort. I, clinging to Firefoot and ruminating on the disaster our lives had become, and you, coming to join me, silent at first, until your need to speak broke the spell night had laid on us both.

We spoke of many things that night. Theoden, Eowyn, The pathetic excuse of an advisor who was sending our world into ruin before our very eyes. We remembered the way that things had been, and dreamed of making the world better when we were given the chance. You as King, and I as First Marshall. Childish dreams of the past, yet we seemed to cling to them, even when we knew it was hopeless. We went on for an hour or more in this manner and then, then you decided to break the news, the best way you knew how.

"I am being sent to the Fords in the morning..." Those were your exact words. You looked at the ground as you said them, as if you were afraid to meet my eyes, for fear that I would know the truth. That you were not coming back. Yet I knew it already and told you to look at me. Tears seemed to shine in both our eyes, though we did not shed them. Men of the Mark of course do not cry, not even when facing death, and the loss of one who meant the world to them. The loss of so much more than a Prince, or a cousin, but the loss of a brother.

For that is what you were to me, and always will be. From the moment I arrived at Medulsed. Thirteen years spanned the difference in our ages, yet you always took time for the angry, frightened eleven year old boy whose very presence seemed to send the entire Golden Hall into chaos. Somehow you were the first to look behind that, to tear away the mask of arrogance. After that, things were never the same. It was always the two of us, and somehow it made sense despite our differences.

And that was how I knew, even when you tried to deny it, that we were spending our last moments together. When at last you admitted it, I begged you not to go, to stay somehow, to send me instead, but of course you could not. Our eyes seemed to sparkle with tears that night, and the following morning, when I watched you ride off into the dawn. Of course we did not let them fall...men of the mark do not cry. You taught me that Theodred. But you were wrong for once, for I am crying now.

***  
\--Sar Majere  



	7. Weeping Iron Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

He came simply because I had need of him. He and those of the Grey Company who could muster at such short notice and from the silver-black of a moonlit night he appeared as a shadow before me. "Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North I am," he said and my heart leapt joyously from the black pall of death and grim determination that drove us after Helm's Deep. He came, my gallant kinsman, on nothing more than faith. I was somewhere in Rohan, the nameless message said, and he so he rode south, trusting.

And in the south he died. Through the Paths of the Dead and the chaos at Pelargir and upon the black ships up the broad Anduin he was beside me, and for a time we spoke as in other days, as brothers of many shadowed roads. With sword unsheathed and the fire of the West blazing in his eyes he strode into the maelstrom that was the Pelannor Field, and above us flew the brave standard he brought to me, the work of my lady's hand. A White Tree, Seven Stars, and a high gem-wrought crown upon a sable field. Beneath that banner we fought and beneath that banner he died. My friend. Though many a road came between and many a year passed always we twain would meet once more and sit of a spring evening - much like this - and smoke a quiet pipe.

Warm breezes caress my face now, the scent of green growing things sweet to my senses as lengthening velvet shadows pool among the hillocks and wash the city walls in pastel hues of gold and lavender. On that day there was only shadow and fear and death, and these fields were trod to a morass of blood and death. It is a blessing now to stand and hear only a soft wind in the tall grass and where once were the clash of arms and the shouts and cries of war, I hear only tranquility. Our peace. I stand upon fertile earth blessed by the blood of our fallen and it is not my peace. I am but its caretaker and guardian of all that so many gave up their lives to preserve. To mourn overmuch would be to belittle their sacrifice, to declare their loss futile and without merit. That I will never do.

But in my selfish heart of hearts, I wish my friend were here to see all that we have wrought. I wish that in this warm spring evening, where the echoes of battle whisper from the sleeping stones and damp meadow, Halbarad Dúnedan, Ranger of the North once again strode beside me. Strangely I am not surprised when upon an errant current of air I imagine I smell, ever so briefly, the fragrance of a familiar pipe. Perhaps he walks with me after all. Smiling I turn and walk towards the city that we saved, and in the gentle twilight I am not alone.

****  
\--ErinRua

[Feedback to: wuzreb@hotmail.com](mailto:%20wuzreb@hotmail.com)   
  
[Visit my discussion](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=114)

  



	8. By Fading Light, Before the Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

From girlhood, we are taught to properly mourn. Every bride's trousseau includes her black mantle. Bitter is the dust the marching warriors raise as they depart. Bitter are the cries of the _mumakil_ , who bellow out the fear our men cannot speak.

Our youngest co-wife has been taken to her bed in a faint. From the way she screamed and clutched her belly when she heard the ill news, the midwife thinks there is reason to fear for the child.

Our husband-mother keeps busy. Grimly, smoothly, quickly do her well-trained hands assemble the funeral feast. She sips heated honey to nourish her throat for the long nights of lamentation ahead. She lets no one, man or woman or child, see her eyes for more than a moment.

There is a division among the children, between those who are old enough to understand and those who are not. Among the first, some sob wildly, throw themselves upon the ground, tear their hair; others try to be brave. The second, they are all talking about the new King. How many Orcs must he have to win this war? What mighty wraith-lords and wicked spells and terrible beasts? How many of our men will this one demand? They are afraid - but they also want to see.

There is a darker rumor still - that he has none of these things. That his power is that much greater. I fear the twilight of our people is at hand if this is true. We will go bravely to dust beside our men if we must, for is there ever another way that war can end? I have no faith this new King will bring an end to it, as none has ever before.

What use would it be for me to grope around longer in the dark? Already the sun of my life has set.

He taught me to read and to write, although it is not the custom for women. He told the elders he wanted a scribe for his clan, and at that time there was yet no son. By the tallow-lamp at night he brought me his poems of love on the sheepskin paper. I keep a sheaf of them still, well-hidden. They should be buried with him, but I shall keep them still, because his voice is still in them. If Ashkeya's child lives, he or she will be the last and should have them. If the new King lets us live, even if it is a daughter I shall teach her to read them.

At first she will be afraid to give her heart. She will see that her warrior-poet father took mine to his death, and now I have none. Yet we women of the Haradrim are brave, so if she survives, the fear will not stop her.

****

\--Vulgarweed  
Memorial Day Challenge - 477 words.  



	9. Fields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

A/N: Faramir on the Pelennor

***

It had once been a field of grain, or just a patch of grassland, or perhaps a stretch of flowers. No one could tell. When he had last seen it nothing grew on it. It had felt cold to his cheek as he had fallen and seemed red to his eyes, instead of brown.

The fields had become a sea of scarred land, full of holes. The combined effect of men, horses, mumakil and weaponry had laid them open to the elements. The pores and fissures of its soil were filled with the dying breaths of men and beasts. And the air above it was heavy, pressing down upon an already ravaged surface.

Under the stampeding feet, the land had gone unnoticed. Not anymore. Not when the fields were empty, no longer swarming with warring troops. And those who returned, gladdened by the victory of an army but saddened by the loss of men of that army, found more cause for sorrow at the sight of the fields that once held orchards and tilth.

They tended to the fields as they tended to the stonework of the city. The gates were re-built, and breached walls were put together again. And the fields were no longer bare. They stretched green and yellow and white and many other colours.

When he returned to that spot, it was still red to his eyes - a sea of tall, red flowers on the riverbank, dancing with the summer breeze. When he knelt down and touched the ground, it felt not cold, but cool.

He tried to think of what had gone through his mind when he fell to the cold, lifeless earth. But he was unable to think or to ponder over what had occurred. His musings were distracted by the shrill laughter of the children running through the field of red flowers.

-end-

***

\--Acacea

My discussion is at - [ acacea-stories](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=214)


	10. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my entry. I made an assumption that Haldir was buried near Helm's Deep, so this story takes place there.

Author: Khylea

Rating: PG - some talk of death, but nothing happens

Warning: Spoilers for Two Towers (as if anyone hasn't seen it yet!)

Timeline: Shortly after Return of the King, movieverse.

Characters: Legolas and Aragorn

Archive: Feel free, just drop me a URL where I can visit it please

Summary: After the War of the Ring is over, Legolas and Aragorn keep a promise to Haldir.

Dedication: For Anais, who keeps me writing. >(

Author's Notes: So here's my entry. I made an assumption that Haldir was buried near Helm's Deep, so this story takes place there.  
****

The day was warm, the sky clear, so unlike the day he had died. Two horses stopped near the raised mound of earth. Their riders stared at the small sapling growing over the head of the grave, before slowly dismounting. Slipping the reins over the heads of their horses, they slowly walked forward. Looking at them, you would not have thought they had anything in common. One was slim, the other stocky, one light haired, one dark, one pale skinned, the other deeply tanned, but they walked together with the easy familiarity of those who have faced death together.

The taller of the two stopped and glanced at his companion. "I do not know if I can do this, mellon nin," Legolas said softly, his eyes distant, unseeing. Aragorn nodded, continuing forward alone, kneeling next to the grave. Reaching into an inside pocket of his tunic, he removed a small eather pouch. Carefully pouring the contents around the base of the sapling, he smoothed it with his hands, carefully packing it down.

"Just as I promised you, Haldir," he whispered. "Earth from your home." He glanced out of the corner of his eye as Legolas kneeled next to him and uncorking a flask, poured a small amount of water on the dirt Aragorn had just left.

"And water from Lady Galadriel's sacred pool, Haldir of Lorien," Legolas whispered. "May the Valar see you safely to the next world."

For a long moment neither said anything further until Aragorn realized his friend was softly crying. Placing a hand on Legolas' shoulder, he squeezed gently. "It is how he would have wanted to go, Legolas. Fighting a noble battle against overwhelming odds." Legolas nodded mutely. After a moment, he spoke.

"He never was afraid of death. He knew death is the price the living pay for freedom. Freedom is anything but free."

Aragorn smiled slightly. "Was that something Haldir told you?"

"Yes. The night he died. He'd had a vision that he was going to die here, but he came anyway. He was willing to give his life that the rest of us might live. That the world would be free from Sauron's evil. He did not consider that too high a price to pay." He shook his head. "So many gave their lives that night. The price was so high."

Aragorn nodded. "The price of freedom is always high. High enough that the survivors always must ask if it was worth it. I do not know about the Rohirrim, but I know your people, Legolas. The Elves would not have considered it too high."

"No. Perhaps not."

Aragorn stood, slipping the reins over the neck of his horse. "Come. Let us go." Legolas nodded, leaping onto his own horse, and with a last look back, urged his horse toward the sunset.

The sunset on a world beginning to heal. A free world......

 


	11. He walks among the greenèd bowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

He walks among the greenèd bowers  
And the white-laced coverlets of flowers  
Mark with winking, yellowed eyes  
The watery passage of the hours

That flow away from yesterdays  
And them that by their honor lay  
In red-decked fields 'neath white towers  
Or 'twixt the streams as passage paid

He walks among the greenèd mounds  
Fettered by still mortal bounds  
From shared embraces: father, king and cousin dear  
For wrath and greater love gone down

By chance, by hope, by what undone?  
Why these three gone, and not this one  
Who walks among the greenèd bowers?  
Why 'scaped he hale of all our sons?

So many gone, yet not this one  
For he must live to give them tongue--  
Friend or foe, high or low,  
'Tis for him to see them sung:  
The price to pay, to be that one,  
To bear the cost of living won.

\--"Victor," Lothíriel, Queen of the Mark

****  
\--Dwimordene

Contact me at dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com, if you would like to leave comments.  
HASA members, please leave comments [here.](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=2&forumId=33)


	12. Peace Like a River Ran Through the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

I was grateful a hundred times for the unquestioning comfort of the big grey horse as I rode up river from the Osgiliath garrison to the place where I had waited a year ago.

I had not known when I set out how hard this was going to prove to be... but it was not as hard as I had feared. As I rode, my anxiety seemed to fall away, and the woods of Ithilien, bursting into unfettered bloom for the first time in my lifetime, lifted my spirit to blossom as well. I began to feel more secure about the ritual I had envisioned, as though a sense of peace flowed into me from the river where I had discovered him at peace at last.

I found the outcropping where I had been accustomed to perch, and spread my cloak about me, mantling, watching blackbirds sing in the reeds. Anduin, too, sang a new song, a song of reconstruction, a song of restoration. There was still a descant of watchfulness, and a quiet undertone of pain, but the river had become a healer and was doing her best to wash us clean of what we had endured, and of what we had brought upon ourselves.

I took my tablet and began to sketch. I started with the basic designs I had in mind for Emyn Arnen. I sketched the designs that Gimli had shown me for the new gates of the White City. I added a small profile of the ranger who was now king, wearing the ceremonial seabird wings and smiling. One after another, pictures flowed onto the page. They seemed so small, these drawings - and so big somehow. Must be the insecurity of the artist.

It was getting dark now, and I took the small candle I had brought, lit it, and set it upon the rock. I took up my small brush and began to write down the side of the page. I wrote of peace and change, I wrote of family and friends, news from home and the lands where he had traveled. I wrote of my sorrow at our separation, and of my fearful joy when I saw the serenity on his beautiful face. I admitted to my envy that night, and affirmed that I had found my own path now.

I told him at the end that we missed him, and ended with my love, and a small post-script that Merry and Pippin asked to be remembered to him, as they remembered him often and fondly. Then I sat and watched the river until the stars flourished overhead. I waited for the swordsman to rise, and when I could see his golden belt I rose as well.

Leaning on the rock, I folded the letter point to point, then over and down, smiling as I fashioned it into a little boat. I flattened the center, and setting the candle within, I waded into the stream and let it go.

I knew it would not reach the place where his boat had gone, but it would last long enough to carry its flickering light away down the river and around the bend toward Osgiliath. That was enough for me, for now. Anduin would do the rest.

****

\--Fileg

If you have comments on this story, please come to [ my forum](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confID=6&Forumid=207)

 


	13. A Man of Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as I started to write this I couldn't get the scene from _Saving Private Ryan_ out of my head, and as I wrote on I recalled the cousin who returned home from Vietnam, missing one leg and bearing the burden to prove himself worthy of the sargent who died trying to get him to safety. This is for him and for my father, who lived through what has often been called _the last good war_ , WWII.

Every year when this day aproaches I find myself reliving what happened, and ever the question I raise is the same; have I proven myself worthy of the sacrifice you made?

I have come once again to honour your memory, this time accompanied by the grandson who bears your name. Not for the first time does he make the pilgrimage with me, but this year is different. For the first time his father is not with us. Even now my son rides with our king, who leads the Eorlingas once again in fulfillment of the oath taken by the great sire of his house - the oath which our young king took anew when at last the Dark One was defeated, fallen to rise no more.

Alas, that so many good men had to die before that victory was ours. Gladly would I have given my own life, but fate and your selfless actions decreed it otherwise.

I have told my grandson how Éomer fought with us that night. He was but Marshal of the Mark then. Do you remember the great champion of Men who stood with us in that battle? Little did I know that this was he who would be King of Gondor.

Certain it is that you did not know him for the future King, nor do I think you would have cared. The Golden Hall had but one master; Théoden King, whom you served so faithfully. Would you truly have fought him had he refused to lay aside that storied blade?

Glad I was that wiser heads prevailed, for the loss of either of you then would have proven grievous to bear. How many times did Andúril and Gúthwinë shine together as he and our proud young Marshal rallied us in defense of the gates? And ever you went with them, the fire of the righteous warrior burning brightly in your eyes.

One last time I followed you into the fray, drawing strength and courage from your example. Not even that was enough. Our defenses were swept away before the vicious onslaught. Some were driven back to the caves - Éomer gathered all those he was able to hold the enemy at bay at the entance to the Glittering Caves where so many innocents sheltered.

How I managed to stand by your side through the last desperate defense I know not, for we were surrounded by our foes. I do not recall from whence came the blow that should have ended my life. I only know that you were there, standing between me and certain death. The blow was turned aside, and you ordered me to fall back to the stairway where Aragorn stood, firm in his resolve to see as many as possible safely within the Hornburg.

I ran, sure that you were close behind me. Only when I had gained the door did I realize my error. Too late it was, for even Aragorn himself came close to being felled by the enemy.

None had seen what had befallen you in those last moments but I prayed that you had somehow found your way to safety. When I learned the truth, how they had hewn your body where you fell, my grief was matched only by my remorse.

In that moment I vowed that I would strive to be worthy of the life you gave for mine.  
  
*******

~Nessime

author's note: as I started to write this I couldn't get the scene from _Saving Private Ryan_ out of my head, and as I wrote on I recalled the cousin who returned home from Vietnam, missing one leg and bearing the burden to prove himself worthy of the sargent who died trying to get him to safety. This is for him and for my father, who lived through what has often been called _the last good war_ , WWII.

_"Yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom." Háma - TTT, "The King of the Golden Hall"_  
Please feel free to join in the discussion [here](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/messages.cfm?confId=2&forumId=189&messageId=10467)


	14. In All But Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

The sun was blinding white overhead the day he left me, falling away from his place at my back in silence. His horse had been killed under him and I had dismounted to cover him, finding the breath to laugh in the stifling hot air at the curses he shouted at me, yelling at me to stay on my wretched horse. I saw him fall out of the corner of my eye, and cursing in my turn, moved to straddle him. The men of my house, all of whom he had trained from boyhood, were finally able to drive the enemy back and enfold us in a ring of steel, but it was too late for him.

I held him in my arms as the desert sand seemed to suck the life's-blood from him. He did not say much, but then, he had never been much for words.

"'Tis my turn to lead, and yours to follow, just this once," he growled, his brow furrowed. "But see that you don't get in a hurry about it."

"I won't," I whispered, bending my head and kissing him on the mouth, as I knew he would wish. His lips smiled beneath mine; then, with a last coppery sigh he left me. I remained there, oblivious, as the last actions of the battle were fought around me, heedless of the sun hammering down upon my head or my men ringing us in grief and shocked silence.

Eventually, a shadow blocked the sun. I knew who it had to be, and spoke without looking up.

"I will war no more for you, Aragorn. I am too old for this, and I am going home." A hand brushed my shoulder, respect and sorrow and understanding all conveyed in a single touch.

"Then go in peace, Imrahil."

I took him home with me, wondering even as I did so if I should, for some of his folk gave their dead to the fire, and others to the desert. My mind was beset and befogged with grief, and it took my sons to clear it.

"It matters naught what his folk did," said Amrothos, "for he is not of  
them now. He is family."

"There is only one thing you can do," said Elphir, and he laid before me an idea which comforted me much.

"You do not mind?" I asked my boys. They all declared that they did not, and so it was done.

 

I visit them both often now, in the House of the Princes; my wife, who is entombed upon the left side of the bier that will be mine one day soon, and he who was my brother in all things but the least important upon the right. The shield man's place, as is fitting. Let men wonder in the future how a Haradrim came to be here among us, let them speculate. The inscription says little, as he would prefer, but it says all that is important.

Here lies Andrahar of Dol Amroth.

****

\--Isabeau of Greenlea  



	15. Offerings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

Every year at this time she grows quiet and edgy. Small sudden noises, like a dropped fork, make her start. The sight of her young son playing brings forth occasional tears, swiftly hidden.

Many folk at this time of year remember, and mourn.

The Pelennor was dark, and the sun hid her face from Men. "The foul one has conquered even the heavens," said some. "Then there is no hope, and we are doomed!" said others. There were many that said little, but threaded their way into mail shirt and greave, cuirasse and helm; taking up the bitter burden of sword, spear or bow.

She recalls then that burden, and that it was bittersweet on her body and in her blood. Bitter, that she had lost lovéd cousin and other well-known warriors of their household to the contest of arms. Bitter that lack of honor in her land and kin had driven her to this. Bitter and befouled by a traitor's covetous gaze and lingering unclean touch.

But there was also sweet, strange though it tasted: the sweet rush of action at last which carried her along on its seductive wind. The sweet fierceness like a hawk choosing her own time and prey. The sweet joy of proving to herself and others that she was more than worthy of a blade.

Bitter and sweet had not been all, there was more: the piercing sorrow of loss of one who stood as father to her until he fell, first beneath the poisoned breath of a worm, later beneath his own horse. The rush of the wind, the joy of the hunt and the boon of victory, all brought to nought when one awakens and there is no healing for the spirit.

And that is what she remembers best at this time. That in the end, whatever difference it made to others, it made little to her when she woke - still broken. Great deeds did not redeem the damaged soul.

And on this day, sometimes she wonders, was she right? At her hands a great evil fell, and perhaps none other could have done as she did.

Was she wrong? She left her duty and people, and disobeyed the orders of her liege lord.

It is one day of remembrance each year, when like a fine bouquet of flowers she lays her service to healing on the altar of her past disobedience and despair.

****

\--Lyllyn  
Discuss this chapter at [Lyllyn's fiction and nonfiction](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=2&forumId=77)  
(This will only work for logged-in members. Anyone else who would like to give much-appreciated feedback, use link below. And thanks!


	16. Flotsam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

A/N: This is from Merry's POV

~~ Salsify

Whatever else it was, it was a baby.

At the time, it scarcely caught my notice; just another bit of wreckage cast up by the Isen. After spending three days in the hands of the Uruk-hai, I certainly wasn't prepared to waste my sympathy on one of Saruman's mongrels. It didn't even seem worth mentioning to Pippin. I just stepped over the little body it where it lay stiffened into an awkward position, and then Pippin shouted that he'd found real Shire pipe-weed and it went right out of my head.

It stayed out too, at least until the others had ridden off to the Black Gate. Then I started dreaming about it; only in my dreams, it kept turning into a hobbit-baby just as I stepped across it.

Someone told me later that the breeding slaves were kept underground, locked in chambers with only a few small roof vents to let in light and air. And water. Only the baby, I suppose, was small enough to fit through. All the mothers and the larger...children must be down there still, washed into the lower chambers as the water drained. Now when I have those dreams, the women are in them too, and the fog that covered Isengard that day is made of the ghosts of drowned slaves.

And yet, what could we have done differently? Saruman had to be stopped, and nothing short of the Ents and Huorns could have taken down that wall. Once the walls were down, their grievances against Saruman and his orcs were so great that the lives of a few hundred prisoners weighed next to nothing compared to what they had suffered. Don't misunderstand; they were merciful enough. They let dozens of Men go free, and I'm sure some of those were guilty of dreadful things. But they... _we_ didn`t go looking for any slaves, and the women and their babies died.

Those babies would have grown into creatures like the ones Saruman brought with him to the Shire, with no capacity for anything but stealing and destruction. If they hadn't died at Isengard, we'd be hunting them across Middle Earth even now. The women could hardly have known anything but misery in that place and most, I'm sure, would have been glad to know that Saruman was defeated even at such a cost. But because of them, I still can't bring myself to say that flooding Isengard was a good thing. We did what was necessary and I believe we did right, but no, not "good".

If Isengard hadn't fallen, the war would have taken far more innocent lives. I know there was no other, less deadly way to bring him down, yet....

Whatever else it was, it was a baby.  



	17. Memorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

A quiet ceremony, he reflects when it is over. The passing of time does not bring distance, but seems to bring acceptance. The pale spring sun falls upon his face; he feels the warmth and the life in his veins. He feels at peace.

The young man to his right – his heir – sighs deeply. "I’m glad that’s over for another year..."

"How can you say such a thing?" Éowyn scolds. "When we are remembering our dead? And remembering that day, that _terrible_ day, when all that we have now was nearly lost—"

"We know, mother. The city was under siege—"

"The gate broken—" their daughter adds.

"The horns blew wildly in the mountain’s sides—"

"‘ _Begone, foul dwimmerlaik!_ ’—" she waves her hand as if wielding a sword.

"The black ships came to the Harlond—"

"Red fell the dew on Rammas Echor!" the girl finishes triumphantly, and brother and sister laugh at each other. Hearing them he almost smiles himself, but then he looks at Éowyn.

A single tear is rolling down her cheek. He reaches out and takes it away. Their eyes meet.

_How could they understand?_ he asks her. _How must it be to look east and feel no dread, to see a king who is not withering, to have only ever known the city in bloom? War forged us, darkness took us, hope saved us. Why should they understand?_

"There is something that I do not understand." The slow, thoughtful voice of their younger son. "Each year, we go to this place, and the buildings... one is newer than the rest – for the Princes, yes – but what happened to the old one?"

Sometimes, when he is not listening, he thinks he hears a whisper which melts too quickly into the air, before he can say if it is memory or desire.

_I will not let them have you... I will not surrender you..._

He looks at his own children – his daughter, his two sons – feels that desire to defend them so fiercely the violence of it shocks him—

"Father?"

It passes; becomes – he hopes – understanding.

"There was a fire," he begins, then levels his voice. "There was a fire..."

* * *

  
_Altariel, 25th May 2003_   
[My forum](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=46)


	18. Namesake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the narrator and his friend are original characters from the story "Myth and Memory", also found here at HASA.

I know you remember well the deeds and sacrifices at Helm's Deep, the Pelennor, and the Black Gate. Great deeds they were, my grandson, and truly great sacrifices. We have songs to honor the victors of those battles and tales to remember the lost: Theoden-King on the Pelennor, Hama before Helm's Deep.

But on this Day of Remembrance, I have not brought you to the Hornburg, and Gondor is too far to take my old bones on a journey. So I have brought you here, and do you know why?

A battle was fought here, and some may call it great, though few there are who remember it. If not for this battle, our people would not have survived the others. Thirty-four men fell here for Rohan, and neither grave nor song do they have.

Yes, it was the wargs. And it was here that the Elf--yes, Legolas of Ithilien, though I knew not his name then--here that he saved my life. But I did not bring you here to tell of the Elf. You know that story by heart. No, I brought you here to tell of the thirty-four, but mainly of just one. The one whose name you carry.

It was here that I lost my dearest friend to the wargs and here that I obeyed the king's order to let him lie. And here the wargs came again and robbed him of a grave. I thought then, as our tired army returned home from war, that Yonwin was forever beyond me. I realize now that was untrue. He only went before me, and I shall see him again soon.

But let us not think of death this day, but of life. Yonwin was a lad full of it until he met this field. From boyhood we were friends and not seldom did we find ourselves mucking the stalls for the mischief we made. Yonwin could make me laugh like no other even in the grimmest of times. And such was his lifetime, for then the Wormtongue ruled through our spell-bound king. It grieved Yonwin greatly, for he was fiercely loyal. His proudest day was his first day at the door. And mine, for he shared joy with others, and sorrow in equal measure. When Theodred was taken, he grieved as if it was his own brother who had died, and moreso because our king did not--until Gandalf released him.

I often wonder what he would have thought of the world we now live in, free of the Shadow in the East. But I do not have to wonder too hard, my boy, because I see him in your smile and hear him in your laughter. You remind me much of him, and it is fitting then that you, too, are Yonwin. He would be proud that one such as you carries his name, and prouder still to know that next month you will take your place at the door in service to your King.

****

\--Ainaechoiriel

[Author's discussion](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confID=28Forumid-101). Note: the narrator and his friend are original characters from the story "Myth and Memory", also found here at HASA.


	19. New Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Memorial Day is technically supposed to be for people, but I couldn't resist this... I remember when I was in high school, we had to watch a film on nuclear power. The film had a segment on nuclear weaponry, and I don't think I'll ever forget watching the series of nuclear detonations set off on atolls in the South Pacific and the sense that US weapons research was of the persuasion that, "Well, as long as there aren't people there, it must be okay to release lethal radiation into the ecosystem." Our world pays as high a price as we do for our hostility. And our stupidity, come to think of it.

By: HF  
Spoilers: book, post-RotK  
Archive: HASA, surely.  
Notes: I know Memorial Day is technically supposed to be for people, but I couldn't resist this... I remember when I was in high school, we had to watch a film on nuclear power. The film had a segment on nuclear weaponry, and I don't think I'll ever forget watching the series of nuclear detonations set off on atolls in the South Pacific and the sense that US weapons research was of the persuasion that, "Well, as long as there aren't people there, it must be okay to release lethal radiation into the ecosystem." Our world pays as high a price as we do for our hostility. And our stupidity, come to think of it.

****

Fangorn could feel himself becoming tree-ish.

'HOOM,' he thought irritably. 'If ever there was a time for becoming like an-old-willow-over-a-deep-cool-pond-in-a-long-winter-with-frost-on-his  
-leaves-and-the-tips-of-his-branches-frozen-in-new-ice-with-the-sunlig  
ht-silvery-weak-on-his-back, this isn't it! I should never get my work done, if I keep on like this.'

But it was late autumn, and all the leaves on the trees were fallen.

All the leaves on all the trees that were left, he corrected himself.  
'BURARUM.'

He and his fellow Ents had managed to start restoring the wild trees to their places, but the trees had turned out to be rather contrary and the other Ents more than leisurely in their approach to restoring them. Well, they had many seasons, and if an Ent wanted to be like an old-lazy-brook-on-a-hot-day-with-the-air-thick-and-very-slow-and-the-bumblebees-fat-and-buzzing-sluggishly-about-the-flowers-and-even-the-fi  
sh-in-the-brook-not-bothering-to-swim-it-was-so-hot, who was he to hurry them along?

Fangorn wandered along the border of the old forest, careful of the new saplings under his great feet. He wondered if they would make it through the winter, without their larger companions to shield them from the wind; that thought drew his gaze upward, to fall upon what he wished at times he could not see. The prospect of thousands of shattered stumps stretched before him, and he felt the deep stirring of true Entish anger for fallen friends and companions.

'I wonder if it will always be here?' he thought, reaching down to coax a tiny ash tree into standing up straight. 'The orcs and Saruman - BURARUM - tore his parents down to feed his fires... the Rohirrim would make a spear out of him, if it weren't for me keeping him safe!' He moved on to a nearby linden. 'And they would make shields out of this one, too, when he has grown!'

Fangorn had a vision of his forest stretching forever, reaching out to take in all the other forests and keep them safe. 'Safe from what?' He thought of the fierce, noble Lord Aragorn, the Rohirrim, and even the young hobbits. Such small things... They needed an Entmoot, was what, to keep them from hasty actions, but such notions seemed very strange to them, always hustling along. Maybe spears and shields was a faster way to settle things for them. He thought about earth churned up, living things torn cruelly from their homes. Did they bother counting that cost? Fangorn did not know.

'And I am growing tree-ish!' How many centuries were falling away for him? In a very dim corner of his mind, he saw himself frozen absolutely still with his forest being chopped down around him, fuel for another Saruman's fires, more weapons for the race of Men a thousand winters down the road.

Old Ent-anger quivered at the thought.

'That is a long way away,' he consoled himself. 'My forest will grow again... if I cannot have my friends, I might at least have their saplings.' After administering one last drop of Ent-water on a small, weak oak, he strode into the forest.

The stumps of the dead trees hunkered down under the cold wind.


	20. The Valar Have Had Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

A/N: Their thoughts on seeing yet another link in the endless chain of Mortal war.

****  
Smoke and battle veil the mountains.  
Rivers flow like bloody fountains.  
Wailing women on the shore  
Watch the tide engulf, like war,  
Pasts and futures. Nothing left  
Save a hopeless wait for death.

Wise men, warriors brought them here,  
Brought the shadow, fire and fear;  
Made corrupt the high, the brave,  
The good, and then defiled the grave;  
Sickened Arda with their anger;  
Left the innocent to linger

In the dark of vanquished sun,  
Knowing light would never come;  
Knowing dawn would never light  
Evil's over-reaching night.  
Hear their pleas to end the wrong.  
Arda, sing your final song.

****  
April 2003, Chathol-lin  



	21. Lost Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

I have lost too many friends, seen too much death.

The first to fall was Amdír, King of Lórien. I shall miss him, his Nandorin ways, his familiarity with the trees and the animals, and all the tales he could tell about them.

Then Oropher of Greenwood the Great was slain with most of his army. I shall miss him, his stories of my forebears, Elu Thingol and Melian, Beren and Lúthien - I am sure that he invented half of them, but they were still sweet to my ears. I shall also miss his quick temper and his stubbornness, his full laughter and his love of life.

The next was Anárion Elendil's son, who had so successfully fought Sauron at Osgiliath, only to perish last year at the siege of Barad-dûr. Though I never really knew him, I shall miss him, for he was of my brother's line and as such dear to me.

And yesterday I lost two of my closest friends. Elendil the well-named, the father of Anárion and Isildur. I shall miss him, his unwavering loyalty to the Eldar, his tales of the sea and of Númenor before the fall and of his father Amandil I wish I had known.

My king also was slain. The star of radiance shall shine no more. I shall miss him, his friendship, his mentorship. I shall miss even his inevitable victories at chess and his subsequent gloating, even his silly advice on the proper way to woo a maiden - as if I would ever trust a 3,600-year-old bachelor on matters of the heart.

Do I dare hope that their deaths were not in vain? Sauron was defeated, but the ring survives. They say the war is over, but I am afraid that this is only a temporary respite. I am afraid that we shall again have to fight evil.

But not now. Now I shall return home and embrace life in all its aspects. I shall welcome friends and family in Imladris, in the Last Homely House. I shall woo and marry my silver queen and we shall have children, giving life rather than taking it. But never again shall I personally set out to war.

I have lost too many friends, seen too much death.

****

~Arbelethiel  



	22. What is war?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Elrond talking to a young Aragorn

Note: This is Elrond talking to a young Aragorn

****

What is war?

War is a bad thing. It begins when two factions disagree and cannot find a compromise. So they fight. Over land, beliefs, jewels.

Yet war can be a good thing. Peoples ally with each other for a common cause; invent new technology. But the price for this is too high to pay.

I know what war is for I have seen it. It is bloody, it is vicious. Everybody will lose someone they know, someone they love. And for all my years I am powerless to stop it.

It is hard to understand death on such a big scale. So many die that they become faceless names to all but those that know them.

I grieve for all the deaths I have seen. The seasoned soldier, who kills without a thought; the young man with his first taste of blood; the civilian who waits for news of her father, brother, husband, son.

A war does not have to be big for it to be a tragedy; for people to die. There is civil war, when neighbour fights neighbour; small battles, where the heroes are unsung; the wars that encompass the whole of Middle-earth, when no-one is safe.

I have seen the great wars of this world - the War of Wrath and the War of the Last Alliance. And soon, too soon, there will be another. I do not know what its name will be, but I know you will fight in it.

You may even die in it.

For you to live you must know how to fight and what you are fighting for. You must know what will happen if you win and what will happen if you lose. You will need to understand not only why you are fighting but why your enemy is fighting. For only then will you be able to beat him, to stop the battles and the death.

You must understand war. But how can I teach you when I still do not  
understand it myself?

****  
\--paranoidangel

 

My discussion is [Nic's fic](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=172)


	23. Was it for this?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from _Futility_ by Wilfred Owen "Was it for this the clay grew tall?"

_But Aragorn was only two years old when Arathorn went riding against the Orcs with the sons of Elrond, and he was slain by an orc-arrow that pierced his eye; and so he proved indeed short-lived for one of his race, being but sixy years old when he fell._ Appendix A

 

Once, when still very young, I passed near this place with Elrond's sons, and they wished to turn aside and visit you. I was oddly unwilling, but they are wise and would not be gainsaid. "Tis high on the heather moorland, open to the sky, a good place," they said, "to watch eagles soaring at dawn."

But when we arrived, an hour before sunset, I felt like a stranger; stood apart and tended the horses, as our brothers, long hair loosed in mourning, keened their lament.

War took you from me, cruelly leaving behind nothing but fleeting memories of soap and pipeweed. When Elrond revealed to me those higher things, my heart rejoiced though they felt distant and unreal, like my new love. Even when later my mother spoke feelingly of your part in the endless fighting; gave me these solider things, your star, your sword, still it did not make you seem real.

At nightfall, against our usual caution, we kindled a fire. Clumsily, new to the art, I lit my pipe, and my companions laughed and moved a little further upwind. "We used to jest with him that he'd be buried with his," they smiled, "and so he was."

I thought of the grave; how a little way beneath the earth the silver rim of a pipe might yet defy decay, and asked if they left him anything else.

"Only her likeness," they said, "for we would not be thanked for taking it from him at the last. Otherwise his clothes, earth-hued like your own. All that we took then, you carry with you now, but for the book your mother still keeps by her bed."

'Tis little enough, star, sword, whetstone, knife, a small box for soap.

That night I watched as our brothers lay dreaming, stars shining in their eyes, and felt it all at last. Countless lifetimes gone since Elros accepted the Gift and it seemed his heirs had nothing to show but the scorn of the ignorant, lonely unmarked graves and the things we could carry on our backs. I had to believe there yet was something more.

For thirty years I sought an answer in war against the Shadow, open and secret, with Thengel's Riders, and in Ecthelion's halls and the caves of Ithilien. Even amongst the Haradrim and the peoples of Khand. While many times, amid grief and horror, I was heartened by ceremony and pageantry, friendship and steadfast bravery, still I felt I had not found the thing for which I sought.

But then, weary at last, I turned for home, and like you before me, or so I am told, I found my answer was staring me in the face.

It is beautiful here now, the heather peaceful in the morning sun. I know you do not mind that it took me a while to find this place again. And our brothers, as usual were right, it is a good place - but not the best there yet can be.

****  
\--Alawa

 

 

**Author's note:** The title is taken from _Futility_ by Wilfred Owen "Was it for this the clay grew tall?"

[my forum](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=90)


	24. The Smith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

He remembered the last time he'd seen this blade up close, the blade he was reforging. It was a great honour to be asked to do this, but Master Elrond had made it clear he had been asked to do this as much for the fact he was one of a handful of elven smiths who had seen this blade before it was broken as for his skill.

Now it would have a new name, this broken blade. As the smith hammered and reshaped the metal he remembered the day Narsil was broken. He had been a mere lad of 35, a message runner in Elrond's following and the youngest elf present. His father and grandfather had been there too, for his grandfather swore allegiance to King Turgon in Gondolin, and the family kept faith with Elrond, Turgon's great grandson.

He remembered the long years in Mordor, waiting. He remembered the final battle, and the blood, and death, the pain of the dying. He remembered the High King Gil-Galad, his nobility, his kindness to the smith who was then but a mere lad. He remembered the mortal King, Elendil, a man of great wisdom and strength for a mortal.

He remembered the horror of the death of both Kings, and seeing the blade he worked on broken as it sheered off Sauron's fingers, wielded by Isildur, Elendil's son. He remembered thinking it a hollow victory with so many slaughtered, and he remembered the violence of his grief when he discovered both his father and grandfather dead.

As worked, he sang to the blade, sang the smith's working songs his grandfather who had been one of Maeglin's smiths in Gondolin had taught him. He sang of war, and death, and he bid the blade remember the death of he who borne it, and to remember he would bear it in yet another war. He sang to it to remember its enemies and its friends, and then it was done.

Anduril would be it's new name, and it would remember.

****  
\--Jilian Baade  



	25. Hope Beyond Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

Eomer surveyed the site that was once the proud fortress of Helm's Deep. He was looking among the bodies of both men and orcs that lay strewn outside the Deeping Wall, hoping to find some sign of life. He saw a hand rise from among the dead, and as quickly as he was able he ran over to it. Grasping it in his, he looked down upon the face of a boy, no more than sixteen years of age. The young soldier had been seriously wounded. He knew he was going to die, and saying nothing he gripped Eomer's hand tight and spent his last few seconds of life gazing into Eomer's eyes. His hand loosened and slipped down to the ground. As Eomer looked upon the cold gaze of the now expired youth he fought every urge he had to weep as he closed the young man's eyes. Then he looked over to his right. Another man laid beside him, and he was holding something in his hand. Taking a closer look, Eomer realized that it was a locket, probably given to him by a loved one that still dwelled in the caves.

As Eomer stood he cursed and kicked the earth into the air. He had never witnessed a battle this terrible in his lifetime, but it could not be avoided. If they did nothing, they would die. If they fought, they would die. He found himself questioning the meaning of all this, and the meaning of life in general. What good is the valor of the slain if they are all to die anyway? Hope? Is that it? Hope for what? At that time Theoden came up and placed his hand on his nephew's shoulder, saying only one thing that made sense out of all of Eomer's doubts.

"Our people are safe"

This answer rang crystal clear in Eomer's heart. Yes, that is why they fought. To give hope to those who cannot fight, and as long as just one man still drew breath, no sacrifice would be in vain. As long as those with courage in their hearts stand fast in the face of the swirling tides than nothing can stand against them.

Eomer resolved to be strong. For himself, and for his people.

****  
\--Dynessuccesor


	26. Yours in Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This letter was heavily inspired by the play '1776', and hence Thranduil's last words to his wife are from John and Abigail Adams' letters to one another. And my favorite song in the entire play: "Is anybody there? ... Does anybody care? ... Does anybody see what I see?" was the main idea for the whole 'remember!' theme.

My Dearly Beloved,

Would that you should see this letter before my return, but we can hardly spare the warriors to bring such dainties as letters back and forth. To take a step back from these harsh times seems near impossible, but I fear that if I hold my feelings too near I shall not be able to carry on any longer. And so I ask, my dearest love, that should this come to you upon my death, remember my words and give them to the people, that you may not forget your beloveds' sacrifices. For today I stand before my father's pyre.

Ai, Father! His death was brave, my love, do not forget! His crown of gold and leaves glittered bright upon his brow; his sturdy lance he lifted above his head and the silver flash called forth all our people to the fight. Though smoke and ash from the battle in this foul land had smudged his cheeks and stained his skin, truly a king he looked! Bright and bold, the death of the Enemy was in his eye and the name of Elbereth upon his lips. Where the forces of the esteemed High King hesitated and cowered, my father did not fear to turn his lances and arrows upon the foul hordes of Sauron.

And so alone we charged, a single pinnacle of light breaking amongst the Enemy, a tide of Good driving back Evil. But alas, our fight was alone and unaided, for none would come to help us. And yet the good King hacked and slashed and slaughtered; the arrows flew, the lances flashed and parried. Every death amongst our own was repaid ten times over.

But our lone drive was ill-fated today, and I can hardly bear to write the words. A foul arrow flew and pierced my father's chest; his gaze went dark, his crown slipped from his head. And from his saddle the King slumped to my arms.

Remember, love, the last words that he spoke! Remember well his whispered, dying cry! Foresight was not his gift, and yet he saw it; saw our fate and knew it like his own. "The victory is ours," he said to me. "I pass now to Mandos' Great Halls, but the Enemy will not win. He will be driven far, and his rise long delayed again!" And then his soul passed from him, and my grief began.

My father, beloved father … he passed with nearly two-thirds of our force. Forgive my penmanship, my love; my hand trembles from the grief, I cannot stop it. I will send along with this a list of the slain. But do not forget what is written here! Remember the bravery of the fallen, and the courage of the living! You cannot do the ones who passed any greater honor. We will not cease our fight until my father's final vision is fulfilled; we cannot do the ones who passed any greater honor.

I send you all my love and care. Should we not be reunited under Greenwood's sweet trees, may we see each other once again in Aman.

Until then, I am, as I ever was, and ever shall be,

Yours,  
Thranduil Oropherion

* * *

Notes: This letter was heavily inspired by the play '1776', and hence Thranduil's last words to his wife are from John and Abigail Adams' letters to one another. And my favorite song in the entire play: "Is anybody there? ... Does anybody care? ... Does anybody see what I see?" was the main idea for the whole 'remember!' theme.

Feedback is always appreciated. My discussion can be found [here](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=109).

\--Vikki  
chan_minako@hotmail.com


	27. The Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

A/N: _Isildur and his son, Elendur, on the Gladden Fields..._

__  
****  


It is there. I see it writ in his face, as he waits for the blow to fall, but alas, I recognize him, and no blood spills. And so he says only, "My king—" and there is more, but I scarcely hear it. I have been a fool, and now I shall be a selfish one just for this moment, and so I hear and yet do not listen to him tell that Ciryon is dead, that Aratan is dying, and as for the rest, I know what I must do. He says it even so, for aye, he is my last counsellor, and the truest, most bound to me, to the fate that I have bound myself to, for such is piety among Men: right or wrong, we hold to our blood. Such is pride of piety that speaks now, saying: _Go! Take your burden, and at all costs bring it to the Keepers: even at the cost of abandoning your men and me!_ So he says, for of all of us in this foul-netted ring of steel, 'tis here, between us, that the scale balances, for we know what lies at the fulcrum, what weights the ends. Is he the better man than I? Mayhap. 'Twas not he who took It, but he kept It secret with me, and again I see it written there: he knows the price of his silence. 

  


"King's son," I murmur. "Forgive me, and my pride that has brought you to this doom." Such a blessing to give a son, but he returns it forthwith and bettered: his lips are rough and cracked as they touch my brow, and I do as I must, turn my back at last as I would not before Mount Doom—is that the turn of fortune's wheel that breaks the dear-bought pride of Men? As I leave this mortal place, his cry is in my ears: _Go! Go now!_ Unseen, I look back but once, and I see it once more: that look that would ask mercy, would accept it gladly in this moment, but holds its silence.

  


For this is our prize, who would govern our end alone and apart from others: to know the deeds that we have done, to wear the cloak of woe homespun, and to say nothing. By my folly, but not by my hand, my son, which would have been swifter than the thirsting knives of Orcs. Yet it is not too high a price to pay, for do we deserve better than this? To reap what we have sowed, and be powerless to halt the fall of the scythe that we put into play? No mercy, Elendur, for you or me or any of my line, innocent though they be of this wicked, grasping silence of ours. We forfeit it them, as befits kings, who decide for all their people. For such is pride that leads to war, that is no more worth the fight—an inheritance of blood.

  


****

Dwimordene's Author's Notes:

__

Go! Take your burden, and at all costs bring it ito the Keepers: even at the cost of abandoning your men and me! 

  


"Forgive me, and my pride that has brought you to this doom." 

  
__

Go! Go now! 

  


Taken somewhat piecemeal from "Unfinished Tales", "The Disaster of the Gladden Fields," p. 286  
  
  
Contact me at dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com, if you would like to leave feedback  
HASA members, please leave comments [here.](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=2&forumId=33)


	28. Inheritance of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Shire-folk survived [the downfall of the Kingdom of Arnor], though war swept over them and most of them fled into hiding. To the help of the king they sent some archers who never returned" (Appendix A, Lord of the Rings). That was in the year 1974 of the Third Age, 374 by Shire reckoning.

She does not know where his body lies, or even if he is dead. Though when she makes herself face truth, she knows that he must be, or else he'd have come home long ago.

It was twenty-two years ago this week, and even then most of the Shire argued it was none of their concern. "Let the Big Folk fight the war!" they said. "The King told us to keep the Road, and let his messengers pass; he never asked for our help in defending the kingdom. We should look to our own borders."

Theobald would have none of that, and he brought his brother around to his way of thinking; though if he'd known Theobald planned to go himself, Bucca might have been less helpful.

The two of them travelled the Shire, and sent messengers out, asking those of age who were skilled archers to gather at the Three-Farthing Stone in two weeks. "For defense of the Shire" was the only reason given; Theobald didn't introduce the riskier proposition of coming to the King's aid until the last moment.

Meanwhile she stayed at home, wondering what would become of the Shire. Evil things were already stirring on the borders, and grim Men riding south on lathered horses had become a common sight on the Road.

The night before the small troop of archers left she wept, of course, and begged him to stay. He wiped her cheeks and told her, "Bryony- lass, I'll be home in a month, never doubt it. We're not going to fight close up with swords and axes; we'll be firing our bows from far away."

If she'd known then, she'd have shamelessly used her condition to make him stay safely home. But her courses had not stopped yet, and she was ignorant of the burden she already carried.

And ignorant of the fact that the war would not pass her by, but sweep through the Shire like a sickle through ripe grain. The archers posted on the borders were cut down, just as Theobald must have been cut down, far away in the North, so that in the end it would have made no difference whether he went or stayed. She would still have found herself, big-bellied and ungainly, scrabbling to hide in the reeds of the Marish as their home burned behind her...

Young Tib runs up to her, begging for another rockcake for his tea. She gives in, and watches him race away again on those lanky tweenage legs, longer than a stork's. He has his father's eyes, but that's all -- the rest is a copy of her. When she cries, alone in bed, that's why; it's so unfair, that Theobald should have given his life to protect a son who will never know him, and doesn't even look like him.

****

469 words, by [Forodwaith](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=241)

Note: "The Shire-folk survived [the downfall of the Kingdom of Arnor], though war swept over them and most of them fled into hiding. To the help of the king they sent some archers who never returned" (Appendix A, Lord of the Rings). That was in the year 1974 of the Third Age, 374 by Shire reckoning.  



	29. The Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

The cock crows, the horn blows, and lo, we turn the tide of battle for Gondor. We press through the sea of scarlet and black on silver, leaving a trail of crimson blood on the green grass of the Pelennor. Our king has returned and leads us into battle himself. Why `twas the king's own spear that pierced the Haradrim chieftain, bringing him down. `Twas his sword the hewed the standard bearer and the staff he carried. The black serpent now drowns in the blood of it's own people.

Our voices raise exultantly, our declaration that victory would be ours this day. But the fickle tide of battle could turn in a single instant, with a single act. The gigantic wings of a nightmarish beast obliterated the rising sun. By some foul witchcraft, madness was cast over our Riders and caught them in its mesh as a fisherman's net ensnares fish. The minds of men fill with terror, as horses rear in panic, some flinging their riders to the ground before stampeding far from the beast and its rider. For a rider it does carry, a Nazgul, the witch-king of Angmar.

Chaos and terror reign. I fall.

"My Lord!" I cry as Snowmane falls to pin my king to the ground.

Blackness consumes me for a time and my dreams are foul. Unlike many of the king's knights, I survive. Left for dead by the Haradrim who believe the tide has turned in their favor.

I awaken to a cry, the likes of which I have never heard before and will never hear again. My eyes open, no, it cannot be. How is it possible … I see the Lady Eowyn, barely able to stand, her sword buried in the hulking figure that would engulf her, the halfling behind them. 'Twas the Witch-king's death cry that roused me. I have lost sight of my lady and raise myself. She has fallen on the empty armor of her vanquished foe, the halfling by her side, by his king's side. The words they speak are not mine to hear as I fall into darkness again.

A loud cry of despair brings me out of evil dreams once more. The king is gone, as is Eowyn and the halfling, and again I am left for dead. The hue and cry grows louder and now I know, it comes from the city. What has occurred that they think all is lost? The Corsairs! Even from here, propping myself on a dead Haradrim, I can see the  
black sails on the Anduin. But wait, a flag unfurls and a joyous cry spills over the white walls of Minas Tirith, echoed by my people on the battlefield.

I realize why I had been left for dead as the earth receives that last of my life's blood. Yet I am granted on last sight, one last thought. I see the sable standard of the new king, the one king, the savior of us all. We have won.

****

\--Amarie  



	30. The Southron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

A/N: Companion piece to "The Rider."

****

Soon. Soon the city of Minas Tirith, the jewel of Gondor will be ours. It will be as the dark lord promised our king when he swore allegiance. The white city is the unconquered virgin and we will force her to open herself to us, to pillage and plunder. We will take her innocence and taste her in all of her sweetness while the blood of her people is still wet on our hands.

We are almost there when a cock announces the rising of the sun and on its heels comes the faint whisper of a voice, carried to us by the wind over the alien, lush fields. Then the note of a single horn is raised in a stirring solo before the chorus of many horns, their voices achieving a chilling harmony that boded ill for us, joined it.

Fierce and fey, the riders in green descend upon us, unstoppable in their gallant charge. Yes, I tell you, though they were the enemy, their valor is no less praiseworthy than our own. Would that they had ridden with us, rather than against us.

I fall to the bright lance that pierces me. I think that if it is my destiny to die in this battle, at least it will be with honor and to a worthy foe. For this company of the Haradrim, defeat is to be our reward and though they have yet to win the gate and true victory, those things appeared to be within the Rohirrim's grasp. My people will reap a bitter harvest this day.

My sight grows dim and the roaring of my blood fills my hearing as it travels through my veins only to spill out on the crimson battlefield. Yet a cry breaks through, the wail of a fell voice from the bottom of deepest of well of despair.

I cannot see! What is happening! I force my arm, my hand to move; they feel weighted down. It is Death's promise that it will come for me soon.

What must have only been a few moments seemed to take hours but at last I free my eyes from their prison of drying blood and sweat. Was it my own or my enemy's? It matters not. I fear the worst, for I know whose cry of ruin I heard. Desperately I prop myself on the body of a slain horse, fighting off the waves of nausea. Please, I beg death, grant me this boon.

My prayer is answered and I am given that last moment though what little strength I have left is fading quickly, but the gods have been merciful to me and my people. I will die in peace for the salvation of Gondor's conquerors is at hand. It is borne upon the waters of the Anduin in the form of black ships with ebony sails. The Corsairs have arrived as promised. I embrace death with open arms, safe in the knowledge that victory will be ours.  
****  
\--Amarie

[Visit My Discussion ](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=285)


	31. The Weight of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

The pearl and silver crown upon my head,  
the banner of the Tree and Stars waves bright.  
“Behold the King,” the voices cry, and light  
o’er all, the darkness broken, shadows fled.  
Great battles won, the armies that I led  
are now returned to peace and joy. The sight  
of many brave companions from the fight  
can lift my heart, free now from fear and dread.  
And yet the voices of the dead are here  
as well. I close my ears to hear the lost  
and bring them near, hear some I loved, gone now.  
I think about the price they paid. ‘Twas dear  
enough. I feel the weight and bear the cost  
along with pearl and silver on my brow.

****  
\--Flick

A/N: The title is taken from one of Boromir's lines to Frodo (movie).  



	32. A Letter Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

Thain Paladin Took  
Great Smails  
Tuckborough  
The Shire

 

Dear Mum and Dad

I hope this letter reaches you, Gandalf says now things have calmed down a bit it might get through.

Anyway I expect you've been wondering what happened to me. Well Merry and me along with Frodo Baggins and his gardener, Sam Gamgee we got sort of enlisted in this war and ended up in Minas Tirith, that's in Gondor.

So many things have happened I can't begin to describe them, but it was all very exciting. Well apart from the bad bits, like when our best friend got killed and then Merry and me were prisoners of war and had to escape. A lot of fighting went on that night, but it was very confusing and we managed to get away in the dark.

Then we got caught up in a big battle which flooded and totally destroyed Isengard and at the same time there was a big war going on in Rohan. We only heard about that later but lots of soldiers and orcs got killed, quite a bloodbath I think.

Oh then I went to Minas Tirith with Gandalf after a bit of bother I had and it got besieged until they broke the gates and that was pretty scary but Gandalf did some good magic so it was all right in the end. Could you believe we get on quite well now, Gandalf and me?

Then Merry had a pretty rough time but was very brave and all, but he couldn't fight in the last battle, so I got to go and represent the Shire - which was pretty grand. Except of course when I nearly got killed, but Gimli found me, so I didn't.

Anyway, how are the crops doing this year and is Dandelion in foal yet? I was hoping to get a pony out of her by when I got back. I'm really looking forward to having some proper tea and crumpets again, they don't have them down here.

Frodo and Sam got a special feast in their honour and you wouldn't believe the food! Mum, it would have put even Great Smails Yule table to shame and that's saying something.

Can you let Auntie Es and Uncle Sara know that Merry and Frodo are all right and it might be good to just drop a line to Gaffer Gamgee to tell him his Sam is still alive.

It was really exciting being in the war, but I am looking forward to coming home and I don't think I want to be in another one. Too many awful things happen as well, if you know what I mean, it's hard to explain so I'm not going to try, just to say I really miss you both - so much.

Have to go now as Gandalf says there is a messenger leaving for up north at noon and I don't want to miss him.

Your loving son

Peregrin

PS: Merry and me both got knighted

****

\- Llinos (500 words)


	33. His Father's Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

The boy awkwardly gripped the sword that the older man had placed before him, though he could not even lift it, but merely prevent the heavy blade from tipping over. He did not understand why the man insisted that he should hold that sword, that it would now be his duty as his father's eldest son to take it and to one day wield it in the honour of his country and his father's name. But then, there were so many things he did not understand. Why his mother had started to cry almost as soon as she had opened the door to the stranger who now knelt before him and spoke of duty, honour and songs that would praise his father's deeds and of other things of which he had never heard. Why they had had to leave the comfort of their home and travel south, to Lossarnach, only to be housed in cramped quartes together with other refugees.

So many questions he had had about events that were beyond the grasp of a boy of merely five summers. To the day fifteen years had passed since he had been given his father's sword, and he wondered about fate's unpredictable ways that had chosen this day for him to find answers to some questions that had remained unanswered in all these years.

Swallowing hard to keep the contents of his stomach from rising, he raised his eyes from his father's blood-stained sword to the carnage of the battlefield. When he had joined Gondor's army and sworn fealty to her King he had nearly burst with pride that he had been given the chance to follow in his father's footsteps. Yet, there had been no chance to prove his worth. Not until Sauron's former allies had openly attacked Gondor, and her army had ridden to her defense.

But now that the opportunity had arisen, he was no longer sure whether he had lived up to the oath he had made when he had received his father's sword. He did not feel like one who deserved to be remembered in song like his father's captain had promised, fifteen years ago. He had slain many enemies, but not so much in defense of his country than of his own life when fear akin to panic had gripped him at the sight of the enemy crashing into their ranks. And they had but fought against Haradrim, not against Sauron's evil creatures like his father had done.

He had never thought he would survive the battle, and sometimes during the fight, he had not even wished he would. Too shrill had been the cries of anguish and pain of friend and foe alike, too heavy the smell of blood and sweat and fear, too loud the clang of metal upon metal that he had feared to never again find peace unless in death.

The question what his father had faced during his last battle had been finally answered, only to raise further questions. For why he had survived this battle while his honourable father had not remained beyond him.

****

\---fliewatuet

Discuss this chapter at [Fliewatuet's Folloups](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=6&forumId=106)

 


	34. Among the Fields of Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

I do what they cannot. I close my eyes to a breeze that brushes my face like warm, silken wings. I breathe the fragrance of damp meadows and wildflowers and the warm spice of the horse shifting drowsily beneath me. I feel sun on my skin and leather between my knees and the latent power of a good mount waiting there.

I live.

Here, I live. Where my Prince fell and Grimbold and I hewed the vile foe but to no avail, for here is where Théodred and so many others died. As I held his broken body in my arms, he spoke with his last breath: "Let me lie here - to keep the Fords until Éomer come!" But Éomer never came. The snake in the king's house even then whispered his evil lies and Éomer himself was nearly lost to us.

Night fell and we knew not if day would ever come again. Yet the Isengarders vanished, for the deed was done. We waited in darkness with sword and spear, and grieving we tended to our slain and wounded. Here in that dread silence we laid our prince to rest until Éomer or the end came to us.

They returned later, a black flood cloaked in fire, and upon these green fields where flowers now nod bright faces among the grasses, we were beset by Isengard's worst. Wargs and Uruks and hatred unbridled, these smashed against us and my horsemen were pressed back, back that we might live, and my heart despaired for brave Grimbold beyond my reach in fell darkness. I clung to the desperate hope that he could hold; that he could withdraw from the Fords and live to fight another day. Wolfriders prowled and wargs howled and we waited for the cheerless grey of dawn, or death.

Dawn found us and from it rode hope unexpected, Gandalf whom some called Stormcrow, but he brought us new light. Théoden our King rode forth! Théoden King led the Riddermark to victory, or to such a death as the winds themselves would sing of it, if no living tongues  
remained to give it voice. So it was I turned weary horses and men towards Edoras, to guard, to wait, to bide what fate would bring. But ever in my mind was a grave at the Fords, my Prince, waiting.

Do you know the peace that lingers now, dear lord? Do you hear the sweet trill of little birds on the downs and the long, gentle sigh of a slow south wind?

A press of leg turns my horse away and down the long grassy slope. Forward we surge in growing speed as if falling into the wind and we are flying now, flying across the great curve of the earth on the very wings of freedom, and hooves drum the beat of my heart. Sleep well, my prince, for we must believe that no loss, however bitter, was entirely in vain. Sleep, while we live on for you.

****

\--ErinRua

A/N: Speaker is Elfhelm

[Feedback to: wuzreb@hotmail.com](mailto:%20wuzreb@hotmail.com)   
  
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	35. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

Horses toss their heads  
The clash of swords and loud cries  
Memories like water

Mamluks lumbering  
Tasseled thick cloths  
Crashing like heavy trees

The march of many feet  
Dol Amroth and Ithilien  
Aiding the White City

The Eored in full force  
Banners fly and helmets creak  
White plumes in the wind

The Halfings in armor  
Serving the Steward and the King  
Valient small warriors

The Grey Wanderer  
Lore master, wizard and teacher  
Friend to the Halfings

Captain of Gondor  
Clashing arms and flashing sword  
Fiery warrior

Son of the Woodlands  
Swift as eagles and mouse-quiet  
Deadly long arrows

Stout-hearted and brave  
Lord of the Glittering Caves  
Strength in his heavy axe

Hope of his people  
Ranger in the northern wilds  
Anduril's wielder

Climbing the mountains  
Fighting in darkness and gloom  
Rescued by swift eagles

The sunset window  
Brilliant gold and silver fire  
Waterfall tumbling

~ Faramir

****  
\--River Otter  



	36. Crimson Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

The young soldier stood alone upon the battlefield,  
A lone soul amidst carnage and dismay,  
He had hewn, and he had slain,  
Without mercy or remorse, for the good of his cause.

Now he could only hear the cries of the dying,  
Gondorian, Rohirrim, Harad, Orc,  
It mattered not. It was all the same.  
Death was death.

He gazed upon his bloodstained hands.  
To fight and die.  
Was this the meaning of life?  
There must be more!

He became aware of a sharp pain.  
As he looked down upon his chest,  
His fate became crystal clear.

The blood on his hands was his own.

****  
\--Dynessuccesor  



	37. Singing in the Face of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

His hand displayed a cold black-feathered dart  
the point upon his palm as red as wine  
as though the steel had sheltered in his heart.

He ran the risk of death to bring a sign  
long promised. In that hand, we all could see  
that once stained red, the steel had lost its shine

But free men pay a price for living free  
and sometimes die as free men to retain  
the right to chose to whom we bend the knee

We offer this as comfort to our slain:  
All men must die - but you whom honor calls-  
You will live on in many a bard's refrain

And when we gather, safely in our halls  
Your names will ring with glory from the walls

****  
\--fileg

 

A/N: An unnamed Rider sings of Hirgon

If you have comments, please come to [ my forum](http://henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confID=6&Forumid=207)  



	38. Cunning Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

_"Glorfindel bare a mantle so broidered in threads of gold that it was diapered with Celadine as a field in spring; and his arms were damascened with cunning gold."_ The Book of Lost Tales 2

****

The forces of Morgoth come again, as we knew they must one day. And this time it is not at the enemy's gates, but at our own that we fight. This time I think we will not escape; there is no Hidden City to whose haven we may retreat. Fortune favored my Lord Turgon last time, but I much doubt we will fare the same this day.

That battle, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, has haunted my thoughts over the years, as it has for all who fought on that accursed plain. I saw so many fall, mutilated, burned, tormented by Balrog or dragon or treacherous Men. Fingon, greatest of those of us left on these shores, was overcome and killed with cruelty. We could not win, we could not hold, we could only retreat, and that chance bought for us dearly.

Now I stand here clad in a ridiculously elaborate mantle of gold and hear comrades jest about my vanity. I smile with them, relaxing the discipline of my command so that all may laugh a bit. It will be the last time, I fear. Shall I tell them it is deliberate, that knowing what is said of me, I have courted their mirth today as I have nothing else to offer my warriors?

Certainly not hope. Certainly not victory.

I give them what I can. The smile and my life are all that is left. And I fear neither will survive this day.

****  
\--Lyllyn

 

A/N: The quote above from Book of Lost Tales 2 has always made me wonder 'Why would Glorfindel wear something like _that,_ especially going into battle?' This challenge inspired me to find an answer.  
Dedicated to Dwim: Happy Birthday, and congratulations on stirring up a hornet's nest! 42 bites in 51 hours!

 

>Discuss this chapter at [Lyllyn's fiction and nonfiction](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confId=2&forumId=77)  
(This will only work for logged-in members. Anyone else who would like to give much-appreciated feedback, use link below. And thanks!


	39. How They Brought the Good News from Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

From Harrowdale we rode with news to raise hope. Through long hours we rode unstopping, and if day turned to night and night turned to day, we remained unaware for all around was a sea of grey. Past Calenhad, Erelas, Nardol and Amon Din we rode, their flames shrouded from sight by the very air we breathe in. This is not the air of Gondor, it is the air of the Shadow. Heavy it weighs as it chokes all that breathe it. The stones of the Rammas cannot keep it out. The Gates of the city cannot withstand it.

But the news we bring may set alight the beacon of hope in the hearts of our men. Hope to conquer the despair this air brings. We ride on, faster still.

I clutch it in my hand, this piece of wood that will give my countrymen courage, and the knowledge that they are not alone in what they face.

They are not alone, not forgotten.

We near the out-walls and my eyes thirst for the sight of the White Tower.

We are too late.

The stones of the Rammas have not withstood the onslaught. I cannot see the White Tower. All I see is darkness.

We are too late.

Dread and despair lie over my city, and I clutch in my hand succour for it.

But we are too late.

The veil before my eyes turns red as the arrow I hold. My companion speaks and in his voice I hear the anger and sorrow that I know will pour out of my throat should I lend voice to the thoughts that swirl in my head. We can do naught. Not pour through the enemy's host and hope to take the news to those who await it. Behind us Rohan will come.

So we turn around. There is naught we can do but turn around and join our allies.

****  
\--Acacea

My discussion is at - [ acacea-stories](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=2&forumid=214)


	40. The Shire Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

The Horn of the Mark sounded across Buckland as twilight fell, calling the Shire-folk to celebration, unlike its first sounding to summon them to battle. As soon as the last echoes of the horn died away, the bonfires were lit. Hobbits began to sing and dance in the firelight. To Pippin's ears, the sounds of the hobbits' joy were the sweetest imaginable.

It was a raucous evening. The tables were loaded with food and the ale flowed freely. Occasionally there was a small flare as pipes were lit. It all reminded Pippin of Bilbo's spectacular party of so many years ago, despite the absence of a Party Tree. That particular party had been the grandest thing before the year 1420, which itself was the grandest thing any living hobbit had known. But it was a year dearly bought.

Most hobbits didn't realize it, but they had been part of a larger struggle. Pippin knew this, as did Sam and Merry. These three had gone out and played their part beyond the Shire, only to come home and find that the Ring War was not quite over.

Pippin grew quiet as he thought over that homecoming. A nasty surprise that had been, after all that he, Merry, Sam, and Frodo – especially Frodo – had been through. He wished they could have stayed home, to prevent the invasion of the Shire, but in his heart, Pippin knew that had they not been away fighting other battles they would not have been ready for their own. Nineteen hobbits dead and thirty wounded in the Battle of Bywater. Those numbers paled in comparison to the carnage on the Pelennor Fields and before the Black Gate, but nineteen dead hobbits were nineteen too many, Pippin thought.

"You look a bit too serious to be sitting in the midst of a party," Merry said, noticing Pippin's somber mood. "Is something you ate disagreeable?"

"Oh, no. The food is excellent," Pippin replied. "I was just thinking about all the reasons we have to be celebrating."

"Ah yes," Merry said. "Sam's Mayor for a second term, you're the new Thain, and the three of us are Strider's Counsellors of the North-kingdom."

"Aye, there is that. But I was thinking of the Ring War and coming home from it." Pippin sighed, "I wish Frodo could see this."

"Oh, I bet he's celebrating every day over there in Elvenhome," Merry said, winking.

"Probably. He deserves it, he did so much. And so did we," Pippin said and stood, raising his mug high. "To the hobbits of the Shire," he cried, "who, fifteen years ago this day, rose up to defend their own and protect the Shire." All those at the table cheered loudly at this and drank in toast.

Several hobbits, by now well into the ale, began calling for a song. Pippin caught Merry's eye, and, grinning, they climbed atop the table together to sing of Frodo of the Nine Fingers.

****

\--Madgamgee

My discussion can be found [here](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/forums/threads.cfm?confid=6&forumid=315).


	41. Stars Amid the Grasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

Simbelmyne, it is called. Evermind in the common tongue. A fitting name for blossoms that serve to adorn the final dwelling of he who now resides only in my heart and mind.

Oh, to possess the memory of an elf! Never fading. Each moment as fresh as the instant it was lived.

But I can not …and already, the edges of my remembrances blur.

The softness of his hair beneath my fingers, and the deep timbre of his voice are still clear within my mind. But the feel of his hand within my own slips from my mind's grasp and the taste of his lips upon mine fades with each passing day. Will next I forget the laughter we shared? The brightness of his eyes when he looked at me?

But one thing that does not seem to dull with time is the sharpness of my regret. For the words I did not say, for what can now never be unsaid. The lost moments when I turned from him in anger or hurried away to attend to duties that would have waited.

Aye, regret, I fear will retain its cutting edge for many seasons yet to pass. Seasons during which the simbelmyne will continue to shine like stars amid the grasses.

****  
\--Sevilodorf

(Speaker is an un-named war widow of Rohan, remembrancing and  
regretting her lost love.)


	42. Payment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of short fics written by various Henneth Annn members in response to the "Memorial Day Onlist Challenge."

They are asleep now, one in each arm. Just a few minutes before they were greedily suckling, filling their little bellies. How peaceful they look now. The storm has passed, calmed with mother’s milk, rocking, a poorly hummed rendition of the rider’s lullaby and love, angry red faces replaced with the peaceful sleep only children know. Carefully I rise and ease my way over to their little bed. I set one down as carefully as I can and then the other. For a moment one stirs, and a fear grips me that they will wake and I will have to lull them again, but luck is with me and they settle in for a good sleep. I put the little quilt the queen gave me over them, and it settles around their tiny forms softly as only silk and down can. Hopefully they will keep it on, for even in South Ithilien, late February nights are cold. I watch for a greedy moment, before the fear of waking them drives me away.

Softer than any burglar, I close the door. There, in the main room, dimly lit by the fire, is my husband looking thoughtful and sad. I sit next to him on the couch, and he admits me under the blanket draped over him.

"This night is hard for you," I say.

"It will be two years on the morrow," he answers. "I should have gone. It was my dream, it should be me who is dead."

"Do not judge your past with the knowledge of what came after," I answer. "None know the outcome of the decisions they make. The prudent choice oft goes awry, foolish mistakes save the day."

"But I could have gone if I had insisted as my heart demanded," he answered. "My weakness sealed my brother’s doom."

"It is two years to the day, today, that my cousin Théodred fell. I marked the hour, sunset, with a quiet prayer. I do not know if it was in vain. It is beyond my keen to judge such matters. Only the Gods can say. I tell myself, he died to save me and our people and am thankful for the gift," I answer.

"Your choice did not seal his doom," he says.

"Gandalf and the King have both told me that our fate hung by the slenderest of threads. I prefer to think that the sacrifices of those I love were the grain of sand that tipped the scale in our favor. Would you have had your brother live only to see the fall of Gondor?" I ask.

"You do not know that would be the case," he answers.

"I know it as well as you know that your taking his place would have saved his life, which is to say not at all," I answer.

He is silent for a long while, staring into the fire. "As always, your wisdom is hard to refute," he says sadly. "I just wish I had some sign, to know I did the right thing."

I stand up and reach out to him, "Come." He takes my hand and rises, following my lead.

With a practiced skill, I quietly open the door to the girls’ room. We enter as thieves, and look at the peaceful repose of the two tiny princesses huddled together under their quilt and our arms find each other. A tear comes to my eye and looking at him, I see the same. I whisper in his ear, "The Gods have repaid our loss in full measure."

****  
\--Fëadan


End file.
